Family Is All We Have In The End
by xxtragedyxx
Summary: A look into Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship through the years.
1. Chapter 1

"We have what you might call a 'difficult relationship.'"

Even as he speaks the words, Mycroft knows that it is the biggest understatement of the millennium. Their relationship is nearly unhealthy. It goes beyond normal sibling banter and into scathing remarks. Sherlock resents Mycroft's entire existence, despite being almost completely raised by his elder brother.

And Mycroft isn't entirely sure when this utter resentment started. At some point, Sherlock had indeed adored Mycroft.

"Mycroft! Mycroft!"

Mycroft looked up from his book to watch a four year old Sherlock bound across the library toward him, several sheets of paper clenched in his small, chubby hands. His dark hair stood on end and Mycroft attempted to smooth it down when Sherlock climbed up onto his lap. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed and Mycroft smiled before ruffling his hair.

"What have you got there, brother?"

Sherlock pushed the slightly crinkled pages into Mycroft's hands and looked up at his brother with wide, hopeful eyes. Mycroft smoothed out the more rumpled pages, looking them over. They all seemed to consist of doodles and scribbled notes of Sherlock's deductions of the manors staff in purple crayon. Mycroft smiled and bent to place a kiss on the top of the little boys head.

"These are wonderful, Sherlock."

Sherlock grinned, a huge, crooked grin that lit up his entire face and he hopped off Mycroft's lap and ran off. Mycroft chuckled at the boy and turned back to his book.


	2. Chapter 2

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock forces as much venom into his voice as he can possible manage with a gun pressed against his head.

"Sherlock, please. Let me in. I can help you." Mycroft's voice is muffled by the door, but there's the obvious sound of impending tears in his speech.

"Why would you help? I thought caring wasn't an advantage?!" Sherlock screeches at his older brother, pressing the muzzle of the gun harder against his temple. "And you won't do anything that's not to your advantage!"

Mycroft sighs and lets his head fall against the door with a soft thump.

"Sherlock, is this about me moving out? Because you know I'll be home as often as I can and you can always come visit me."

"You're abandoning me, just like Father did..."

"Sherlock, please. Just open the door."

There's a tense, silent moment before Mycroft hears the lock click. He eases the door open and lowers himself down in front of his brother on the floor. He keeps his movements slow and deliberate so he doesn't startle the teenager.

"Sherlock. You're 16. You have a long life ahead of you. You're going to University in the fall. You're going to do great things. Don't throw that away. I promise I'll come see you as often as I can and you can stay with me this summer if Mummy allows it. Please. Give me the gun."

Sherlock's tight grip on the gun loosens and he starts to drop his hand. Mycroft reaches forward, eases the gun from his fingers, flick on the safety, and sets it out of Sherlock's reach. Then he pulls his baby brother into his arms and holds the boy while he sobs.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock was 6, he deduced that his father had been having an affair. His mother had locked herself away in her study and his father had given him a rather extensive beating before packing his things and leaving. None of the three other Holmes ever heard from him again.

That night, 13 year old Mycroft Holmes was left to clean up the mess his father had made.

Mycroft had scooped up his baby brother from the dining room floor and carried the small boy into the closest bathroom. He sat him down on the closed toilet and set about cleaning the little boys open wounds and determining if there was any internal damage. Sherlock hadn't stopped crying until Mycroft had given him a dose and a half of children's strength paracetamol after figuring out that most of the damage his father had done was external and superficial.

He was reluctant to leave his brother on his own to sleep, so he took the drowsy boy to his own room and tucked him into the large four poster bed that Mycroft had in his room. Sherlock fell asleep almost immediately, but Mycroft couldn't sleep, not yet. It was still fairly early and he was too wound up to think about sleep. So he sat in the chair in the corner, reading until the wee hours of the morning.

He woke up that morning, still in his chair, with Sherlock tugging on his shirt sleeve.

"Mycroft? Mycroft, I'm hungry."

Mycroft glanced at his watch, shocked to find it was nearly 10 in the morning and got up and lead Sherlock down to the kitchen to make breakfast for the boy.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock is 22 the first time he overdoses on cocaine. Mycroft finds him sprawled out on the sitting room floor of his flat du jour, unconscious. His hair is dirty and long, falling on the floor around his head in lank curls. His shirt is wrinkled and messily buttoned and the sleeves are rolled up and the inside of his left elbow is one huge bruise. Mycroft sighs, checks his pulse and airways, rolls him on his side, and calls an ambulance.

Its 24 hours before Sherlock regains consciousness. When he does wake, Mycroft is sitting by his bedside. Sherlock glares up at his older brother, making his displeasure known.

"Honestly, Sherlock. I thought you were smarter than that."

Sherlock scowls and crosses his arms over his chest.

"I knew perfectly well what I was doing, Mycroft," he spits, pure hatred in his voice.

"You damn near killed yourself! I'm not always going to save your stupid arse, you know!"

"I don't need you to save me! I don't want you to save me!" Sherlock shouts, fire in his eyes. "I just want out!"

Mycroft's face falls slack and he stands, turning toward the door. At the last second, he looks over his shoulder at his brother.

"I've already spoken with your doctor. You'll go straight into rehab from here, and you'll stay there until you're capable of staying clean. Please stick with this better than you did Uni."

And with that, Mycroft walks out the door and Sherlock doesn't see him again, not face to face, for near on three years.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock was a boy, he was energetic and expressive and actually quite happy. Mycroft loved his baby brother quite dearly and Sherlock adore his big brother.

When Sherlock was 16, Mycroft moved into a flat in the city to be closer to his work. Sherlock didn't see him for more than a few minutes in passing for 3 years.

By the time Sherlock was 19, he had left the manor to attend Uni, but had subsequently left Uni after a year and a half and had moved into a small, dingy flat in the city. His drug habit is in full swing before he's 20. This is when Mycroft finally makes an effort to be in Sherlock's life again.

He gets the address for Sherlock's flat from his assistant and drives over one evening to see what his brothers getting into. The flat reeks of smoke and a cocktail of chemicals. Sherlock's laid out on the couch, hands folded under his chin, eyes closed. Mycroft nudges his brother's shoulder, startling the young man. His eyes fly open, wild, bloodshot and out of focus.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice is wobbly and hoarse, like he hasn't spoken in days. Mycroft sits down on the edge of the couch and pushes the dirty, greasy curls away from his brother's sickly pale face.

"What have you done now, brother?" He sighs, frowning down at the boy. Sherlock sits up and rests his forehead against Mycroft's shoulder.

"Why won't it stop? It feels like brain is overloading and I can't stop it. What's wrong with me, Mycroft?"

"You're a Holmes. It's who you are."

Mycroft wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders as they began to shudder and jerk with his quiet sobs. In that moment, holding his strung out little brother while he sobbed in that filthy flat, Mycroft knew he'd failed Sherlock. It had been his responsibility to raise Sherlock up right, and he'd failed. He just sighed heavily and pulled his baby brother closer.


	6. Chapter 6

From the time their father left until just before Sherlock's 8th birthday, the young boy had been plagued by terrible nightmares that had sent him running to the safety of his big brother nearly every night. The nightmares were so regular that the brothers had formed a routine.

Mycroft would put Sherlock to bed around 8 every night before retiring to his own room. He would read most nights until 10, and then he'd put on pajamas and brush his teeth and get in bed. He'd doze lightly until around 11:30 when Sherlock would crawl into his bed, waking him up. The little boy would curl up next to Mycroft and Mycroft would throw an arm around him and the pair would fall back asleep.

Over time, the nightmares started to come less frequently until Sherlock slept through the night every night. After thing went back to normal, Mycroft found it increasingly difficult to fall asleep without a warm body next to him. The 15 year old would lay awake night after night, staring at the ceiling, unable to catch up with the relief of sleep.

Young Sherlock found sleep eluding him as well during this time period as well. He'd toss and turn, tangled in a pile of blankets, always too cold and too lonely to fall asleep.

Shortly before Mycroft's 16th birthday, in the spring before the older boy would leave for University, Mycroft was surprised by Sherlock climbing into his bed one night. He rolled over and threw an arm around his baby brother, like he always used to.

"Nightmare?" He murmured. Sherlock shook his head as he burrowed in closer to his brothers chest.

"Just can't sleep."

"Me neither."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was 30 when he met John Watson. John Watson terrified Mycroft. This small, unassuming man that his brother had chosen to fall in love with. It had been one of the only times Sherlock had sought out Mycroft since he'd left Sherlock behind.

He'd been at the office when his baby brother had shown up, coat billowing around him. There was an odd tension around his eyes and his fists were clenched at his sides.

"We have a problem, brother." His voice was tight and choked. Mycroft set down his pen and turned his full attention to Sherlock.

"What's the issue, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood there, his mouth opening and closing several times while he searched for the words. After a few moments, his fists clenched themselves in his dark hair and he dropped to his knees, pressing his face to the carpet. It was an action Sherlock had not performed in front of Mycroft in 20 years. When the conflict between his feelings and logic became too overwhelming, he'd collapse to the floor and sob.

Mycroft is on his feet and around the desk in a flash. Sherlock is trembling from head to foot, but he's completely silent.

"Come on, Sherlock. Find your voice. Tell me what happened."

"Johns going to leave," he whines. "I don't know why I did it, but I did and now Johns going to leave, I just know it."

Mycroft lowers himself to the floor and pulls Sherlock up into his arms. "What did you do, Sherlock?"

"I kissed him," Sherlock moans against Mycroft's suit coat. "He was being so goddamn brilliant and it just happened, I kissed him and the look he gave me. Oh god. He looked so confused and scared and it was so irrational and I did it Mycroft, I royally fucked this up!"

Mycroft shushed his brother, rubbing soothing circles the other man's back.

"And let me guess, you ran off before he could say or do anything?"

Sherlock whimpered as Mycroft's mobile chimed on his desk. He deposited his brother in one of the chairs in front of the desk before picking up his phone. The text message from John was straight forward. 'Is Sherlock with you?' Mycroft sent back a quick text, informing the Doctor of Sherlock's whereabouts and encouraging him to come.

Mycroft spent the next 15 minutes shushing and soothing his trembling baby brother, until John burst in the door. Sherlock jumped up and starting sputtering, searching for the right words, and John simply grabbed ahold of Sherlock's face and pulled him in for a kiss. Mycroft turned his back and let the couple have their privacy. Before the two could fly out of the office in the usual whirlwind, Sherlock stopped and placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder and gave him a /look./ And not 5 minutes after they left his office, Mycroft received a text from Sherlock.

'Thank you.'


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft has only ever resorted to first hand, physical violence once in his life, and it was on Sherlock's behalf. The boy was barely 15.

Mycroft had just gotten home, with plans to stay the weekend before returning to school until Easter. He could hear a scuffling from upstairs, but the rest of the house was silent, which meant Mummy was deep in the drink again. Mycroft sighed, hoisted his bag up higher on his shoulder, and headed upstairs.

And then the scream shattered the silence.

It was quick, one loud wail of anguish that was hastily muffled. It was a scream Mycroft recognized as Sherlock's. He dropped his bag and sprinted up the stairs. His long legs propelled him forward fast, but still not fast enough for his likings.

Mycroft shouted for Sherlock once and tried the door to his brother's room. It was locked, but the adrenalin pushed him forward and he kicked out, planting his foot close to the lock and cracking the door open. Mycroft was not prepared for the sight he met.

Sherlock was on his knees in the center of the bed, his trousers round his ankles. His wrists were bound to the bed post and a piece of fabric was stuffed between his teeth. Tears were streaming down his blotchy, red face steadily. There was another boy, behind him, pinning his legs down, his trousers shoved down his thighs. He was tall, with golden blond hair and wide green eyes. The boy was also bollocks deep in his baby brother.

The boy tugged himself out of Sherlock, causing him to wail again, muffled by the makeshift gag. Mycroft, in a fit of blind rage, grabbed the boy by the back of his collar and threw him off the bed and onto the floor, and pinned him there with his gaze. Then he turned, untied Sherlock and told him to wait in the bathroom. Sherlock nodded weakly, pulling what Mycroft could now tell was a sock from his mouth and crawled off the bed and walked unsteadily to his bathroom.

Mycroft rounded on the other boy once the bathroom door clicked behind Sherlock. He grabbed the boy's shirt and hauled him up to his feet.

"Now, who the hell are you?!"

"V-V-Victor, sir. Victor Trevor," the boy stammered.

"And, Victor Trevor, what is your justification for RAPING MY BROTHER?!"

The boys eyes widened and he trembled under Mycroft's gaze. When he didn't answer, Mycroft gave him a solid smack across the face.

"He's pretty and I wanted him and he's a fucking tease! He deserved it, the games he was playing at!"

Mycroft shoved Victor out the bedroom door and down the hall. He backed the boy all the way to the top of the stairs, and then landed a solid uppercut to the teen's stomach, toppling him and sending him end over end down the stairs. He followed, kicking and shoving Victor in the direction of the front door.

Once more, just after opening the front door, Mycroft gathered Victor up by the front of his shirt and growled lowly in his face.

"If you ever come back here, if I ever see you again, if I ever hear about you bothering my brother, I will obliterate you and your entire family. Got it?"

Victor nodded, terrified, and Mycroft bodily threw him onto the front step and closed and locked the door behind him before jogging back up the stairs to Sherlock.

He finds his brother curled up in the bottom of the tub in Sherlock's bathroom. He's stark naked and his ruined clothes are folded up neatly on the lid of the toilet. Mycroft sighs heavily, tears prickling at the back of his throat, and sinks to his knees on the tile. He slumps forward and lets his forehead rest against the cool, white tile and fights down sobs.


End file.
